D
OWN AMONG THE WOMEN.
‘A million housewives every day—
Pick up the goods, forget to pay—’
And then presently stand in the dock, respectable, brazen, tearful, villainous or confused as the case may be. It was a mistake, it was my nerves, it’s the pills the doctor gives me, I’d had a row with my husband. I wanted it. Well, if not that, I wanted something, I don’t know what. All I know is I haven’t got it.
You can clean and tidy a Council flat in half an hour. You can shop down the Supermarket in another half hour. What kind of achievement is that? Where are the wolves to be kept from the door? Where are the lice to be picked from the clothes? What pleasure is there in the sliced plastic bread, compared to the loaf you’ve made from the flour you had to sleep with the miller to get?
So says Jocelyn. Jocelyn now lives in a Council flat with a printer. He is a card-carrying communist, which is an old-fashioned thing to be, but then he is a romantic man; not a Trotskyite, a Marxist, not even a Maoist, but a Stalinist. He knows it is folly; so does she: there is splendour in such misplaced loyalty. They are happy. She is entranced by the crudeness of his language, the violence of his passions. She watches him scrub his dirty nails as he cleans up after work. He gazes in admiration as she reads, and listens when she talks. They spend a long time in bed together. He despises advertising, and laughs at Philip. She met him in a café, and within six weeks had joined him in his flat. She took Edward with her, who was not pleased by the move.
Almost, she left the child with Philip; but then her courage failed her. She hopes Edward will grow to look more like her Ben and less like Philip, but he shows little sign of doing so. She has a daughter now, Ben’s child, with Ben’s dark eyes and strong features. She loves her daughter, and calls her Sylvia.
She once gave to Scarlet the following account of her parting with Philip:
‘It was the day Helen died. I’d had a phone call from the police. They’d found my number in her address book. I shouted and swore at them over the telephone; I think they were shocked. Or perhaps they’re used to it, I don’t know. Then I abused Helen to them, a good deal. I was angry about Alice. I would have looked after her; well, any of us would. Afterwards, I calmed down, and cried for Helen, and then I wanted to talk about it all, very badly, but the only person I wanted to talk about it to, was Helen herself. We would have had such a rich female conversation, and dissected everyone’s emotions, and tried to decide what it all meant. And now she had deprived us both of this pleasure. Perhaps they were right, and she was always just a mean, wicked woman? But no, she was my Helen, and as I grew older I grew fonder and fonder of her; as you did, Scarlet. And now, quite suddenly, she is just someone who lived and died in the past. As for Alice, well, I can hardly bear to think about that. Sometimes I think how wicked, how terrible, how monstrous of Helen. She was of course insane. She must have been insane if there is to be any forgiveness. But at other times I think no, that wasn’t madness, that was sanity. She did the right thing. For what kind of life would Alice have had? And if, as I think happened, death became to Helen not the absence of life, but a real and positive state, she would want to take Alice with her. She became a better and better mother as time went on.
‘Philip came home that evening troubled and anxious, and waiting to be asked why. But I wouldn’t ask, at first. I was angry with him because when I rang him up at the office to tell him the news of Helen’s death, all he would say was “Oh yes? Oh dear. Well, I’m rather busy, I can’t talk now.” He was beginning to believe, you see, that advertising campaigns were the only real things in the world. Or perhaps he was just too angry, with me, and himself, to take anything real in. We had been having money troubles. He was making five thousand a year but I was making us live at the rate of at least eight.’
‘You sound quite pleased about it,’ says Scarlet.
‘I was. While I was living with Philip I was a very disagreeable person. Now I live with Ben I am quite nice and reasonable. It was sex, of course, the whole thing, although I would have been horrified by the suggestion at the time. If I couldn’t get what I needed in bed—while denying the need for it, of course—I’d bloody get what I could out of him in other ways. Poor Philip.
‘Anyway, I finally gave in that evening and asked Philip what the matter was. He had an important New York client in town, it transpired. He had arranged for a call-girl to spend the night with the client, but the girl had developed ’flu and called off. All his other normal sources were useless, he claimed; not only was there a ’flu epidemic, but London was bursting with conferences and randy big-businessmen, and the city’s high-class sexual resources were strained to their uttermost. You can’t give a big-businessman just anybody, you know. The girls have to be well-spoken, mannerly, and of course, free from disease—or the whole thing becomes sordid.
‘ “Why Philip,” I said. “I had no idea you were a pimp.”
‘Now of course I knew he was. Executives are expected to see that clients have a good time, and having a good time includes girls. I did not myself believe, at the time, that Philip shared in these good times. I thought not only that I, in some mysterious way, was responsible for his impotence, but that the harm I did him would pursue him wherever he went.
‘When I made my joke about the pimping, Philip became quite violent. Perhaps he was more upset by Helen’s death than I thought. At any rate that evening we both behaved out of character. Or perhaps, indeed, for once, in character.
‘ “You don’t care if I go bankrupt, do you?” he said. “People lose accounts for this kind of thing. And if I lose accounts I lose my job, and you lose everything. Because all you care about is bloody money. You don’t care about people.”
‘ “Yes, I do,” I said. “You’re talking about yourself. I just wish I was married to a successful pimp, not a failed pimp.”
‘(You must remember how mild, polite and decent we normally were to each other, to appreciate the full trauma of this conversation.)
‘ “You are a frigid, anti-sex, English bitch,” he said. “And a liar. You make my life a misery. You are against pleasure in every form.”
‘ “I have not much chance to be anything else,” I said, “being married to you.”
‘ “Bloody nonsense,” he said. “You’d be the same, with anyone.”
‘ “You are wrong,” I said. “I know for a fact how wrong you are.”
‘ “Whore,” he said. “Slut.”
‘ “All right,” I said, “if that’s what you want to believe, that’s what I am. You are quite right; I only care about money. I would sell myself for money. Come to that, I would be perfectly happy to give myself away.”
‘ “Prove it,” he said. “You go along. You spend the night with him.”
‘That silenced me. I left the room.
‘One of the things which made me continue to see sex as a kind of life force, and not—as I am sometimes tempted to believe in these days of pornographic advertisements and see-through dresses—a feeble human activity which needs all the artificial fostering it can get, is the way the nearness of death compels one to make love. And I say make love, that old-fashioned word, not fuck, on purpose. But who had I to make love to? If it can’t be the former, the latter will do. Or so I thought in my rage.
‘I drank a quarter bottle of Scotch in the kitchen, and went back to Philip.
‘ “Very well,” I said, speaking the jovial language he best understood, “for the sake of Britain and the export drive. Lead me to him.”
‘I did not believe that Philip, my husband, with whom I had shared, albeit without satisfaction, so many beds, breakfasts, holidays, mortgages, bills, cars and wallpapers, would actually undertake anything so extreme or definite. But he just smiled, this pale, limp, weary ad-man, and with a confidence I had never known in him before, led me upstairs to the bedroom. I think it was that he had, on that instant, ceased to see me as a wife and now saw me as a whore, and he was quite at ease with whores.
‘He went through my drawers as if he knew them well, and I wondered if examining them had perhaps been one of his secret pleasures. He selected black underwear for me, and dressed me in it, and made me look at myself in the mirror, turning my head so that I was obliged to see.
‘ “You would pass for twenty-five,” he said. He would not let me wear a dress; he made me wear a raincoat over the underwear. As for me, I felt alternately foolish, excited, and embarrassed. I could not imagine now what our future together would be. I saw, and rightly, that our marriage was ended.
‘We went by taxi to a large hotel. In the lift he said, “I was lying about the girl having ’flu. She’s still waiting for the telephone call. I wanted you to do it. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”
‘I would not have gone back then for all the world. I remembered you, Scarlet, telling me about the man you sold yourself to for a pair of stockings; it had entered into my fantasies. Is it because we are English that we are all so masochistic? Do the French, the Italians, the Americans, yearn for degradation? I wanted to know what it was like to make the fantasy real; to discover whether—in the same way that fiction is so much more satisfactory than real life, having a beginning, a middle, an end, and a point—the fantasy is not more fulfilling than the fact.
‘He had to push me along the corridor, just the same. He knocked on the door of Room 541, and opened it. His client was lying on the bed; he was about forty-five, I suppose, with a city pallor, a flat face, square jaw, rimless glasses, close-cropped hair; I felt I had seen ten thousand men just like him before.
‘ “Hi,” he said. He was very amiable. “Philip, glad to see you. What a lonely city this is. But all large cities are the same, aren’t they? All I ever want to do is stay at home, and sit in the garden with the wife and kids, and grow beans. But no, life isn’t like that.”
‘ “This is Una,” said Philip.
‘ “Hi, Una,” said Mr Rigby, and after that ignored me. “Like a drink, Philip?”
‘Philip, to my alarm, accepted. I had thought he would leave at once. Mr Rigby poured himself and Philip a drink and did not offer me one. I sat on a hard chair in the corner.
‘You know what it’s like in hospital, when you’re ill, or having a baby, and you become de-personalized, and just a body, to be directed here and there, and ministered to, and hurt or healed as luck and the institution will have it. All sense of personal identity goes. That’s what I felt like, sitting in my corner, waiting.
‘They talked about marketing. After about quarter of an hour, Mr Rigby directed a gracious word to me.
‘ “Take your raincoat off, Una,” he said. “You look a bit hot. These hotels are always stuffy.”
‘Philip crossed and took off my raincoat. I sat down again, knees together.
‘Mr Rigby smiled, and asked me to take off bra and pants.
‘ “Una a friend of yours?” he asked Philip, when I had done so, and had sat down again, as one does in the cubicle of outpatients, only without the towelling gown, of course.
‘ “Yes,” said Philip. “On and off.” I wished he would go. I did not like waiting. I was having trouble breathing. They continued to talk about market research and the tragedy of the research-orientated society, in which nothing new can happen, but only what is known repeated.
‘ “Mankind is on a pollution binge,” said Mr Rigby. “He pollutes his outer world with chemicals, and his inner world with research.”
‘ “I tell you what,” said Mr Rigby, eventually. “I’ve got a feeling I’m getting ’flu, like everyone else. Supposing you stay and make the most of Una here. It would be a pity to waste her.”
‘I cannot be so disagreeable as I sometimes think, because my first concern was for Philip. I thought, he will acquit himself badly. He will be impotent, he will be despised, he will lose the account. We will be bankrupt. I need not have worried. Under Mr Rigby’s observing eye, according to Mr Rigby’s specification, Philip behaved like a sexual athlete in a schoolboy’s dream, taking me—and I say taking, because that is what it felt like—this way and that, using hands, mouth, penis in a complex pattern worked out beforehand, I imagine, by Mr Rigby’s research-conscious brain, until indeed I was transposed, for the first time, into that other black, tumultuous parallel universe, where I had never been before. Mr Rigby’s smiling and observing face loomed through it, however, and he seemed the familiar one, and Philip was the stranger.
‘After they had finished and I was replaced upon my chair, and the waiter had brought coffee, which—allowed for this purpose at least to be something more than animal—I was asked to pour, and Philip and Mr Rigby were going through a folder of research statistics, it came to me that of course this was the normal pattern of events in an evening with Philip and Mr Rigby. But why had Philip wanted it to be me, when so often it had been other women? To reduce me to the level of the others, to vilify me, to demonstrate to me my proper function in the world? Did he really need so badly to humiliate me? Was his revenge so important? Or was it just to prove to me that given the right circumstances he could be as potent as the next man? Or perhaps, Scarlet, he just fancied me? Perhaps men are as simple as that?’
‘Why, come to that,’ says Scarlet, ‘did you go along with him in the first place? What kind of revenge was that?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Jocelyn. ‘I just don’t know. It was the end of our marriage. We limped along together, returned to our separate beds, for a month or so. I could not forgive him, yet I did not know what I had to forgive him for. It was my doing as much as his. Yet, because he was my husband, I had expected him to save me from myself. But why should he? I remind myself of Edward in a rage, hitting another three-year-old on the head and shrieking “Be my friend!”
‘Edward. That was the other thing. The accident I’d been working up to. All those accidents, like one’s life, becoming less funny and more bitter as time goes on. I was bathing him, and forgot to put the cold water in, and lowered him into scalding water. There is, of course, no such thing as an accident. I did it on purpose to my child, because he looked like Philip.’